The Sixth Wife_ The Story of Katherine P - By Jean Plaidy Page 0,98

Grace.”

Henry’s voice was more distinct. “’ Twas Surrey who first wrote blank verse. I remember it. He gave us the sonnet. A poet… but…a proud and foolish boy.”

“He plotted against Your Grace. He displayed the royal arms on his own. Your Grace forgets. Surrey thought himself more royal than royalty.”

The King had become confused. “Buckingham!” he shouted, but his voice immediately fell to a whisper: “To the Tower with Buckingham. To the block, I say!”

Seymour reflected that it must be thirty years since Buckingham went to the block. Now the King remembered. Was his conscience, so long subdued concerning Buckingham, now rousing itself uneasily? The case of Buckingham had been similar to that of Surrey; both had been noble lords obsessed by their nobility.

The King was muttering again. He had returned to the present. “Seymour…are you there? Thomas…my friend…you spoke of Surrey. He has gone, has he? What was his crime?”

“He would have made his sister your mistress, Your Grace. Your Grace was enraged at such a suggestion.”

A leer, which made the bloated face more horrible, now curled the King’s lips. “Howard’s girl…a comely wench… and saucy…”

Seymour felt nauseated. He turned from the King, thinking with amazement: On his dying bed he contemplates his bedtime pleasures! And Kate… my poor Kate… she was married to this man; and this is the monster who planned to send her the way he has sent others; who was planning, if rumor be correct, but a few weeks since.

“Thomas …” cried the King suddenly. “There are men in our chamber. Our enemies whisper and conspire against us.”

“Nay, Sire. They are but your Councillors. They come to inquire of your health.”

“Is Norfolk there?”

“Nay, Your Grace, Norfolk lies in the Tower, awaiting your signature to his death warrant.”

“We’ll give it. We’ll give it. To the block with these Howards… father and son.”

“Your Majesty must preserve his strength.”

“There’s strength enough… I’ll sign it. Surrey…a foolish boy. A comely wench, thy sister, Surrey. A drink…a drink…my throat is scorched by fires. Douse them, Seymour. Douse them, my friend. What whispering goes on about me? Come forth! Come forth! Ah, I see you there, you rogue. What news, eh? Why do you look so smug? Am I going to die? Is that what you would tell me? Come…. You there, Denny. What news? What news, I say?”

Denny, braver than the rest and certain now that the King was dying, decided to tell him the truth.

“My lord King, all human aid is vain, your doctors fear. It is therefore meet for Your Majesty to review your past life and seek God’s mercy through Christ.”

There was a second of terrible silence while understanding showed itself on the King’s distorted face. But he was quick to recover his calm, to banish the terror which had laid hold on him. He said sternly: “Tell me, Denny, by what authority you come to pass sentence on me. What judge has sent you here?”

“Your doctors, Sire. I will send them to you. They await an audience.”

The King closed his eyes wearily, but when a few seconds later the doctors approached the bed with medicines for him, he opened his eyes and glared at them with the old ferocity. “What’s this?” he demanded. “You have passed sentence on me, you judges; and when a judge has passed his sentence on a criminal, he has no longer need to trouble him. Begone! Begone, I say!” As they continued to stand there watching him, he shouted: “Begone! Begone!”

The doctors bowed and turned away.

“Your presence can do no good here,” said Wriothesley.

When they had gone, the Chancellor approached the bed.

“Your Majesty, would you wish to see some of your divines?”

“Eh?” said the King. “What’s that? Ah…so it has come to that. Divines! Nay! I’ll see none but Cranmer… and him not yet.”

Wriothesley turned to one of the gentlemen. “Go you to Cranmer. He is at Croydon. Go with all speed. Tell him the King desires his presence at White Hall without delay.”

“Your Majesty,” he went on, “Cranmer will come.”

“I’ll have him when I am ready… and not before. Begone! Begone, I said. Leave me….”

His eyes glared at them, although, to him they were like shadows at his bedside. They moved away to a far corner of the chamber, and after a while the King closed his eyes and began to speak again.

“Begone…. Begone… I’ll have none of ye.” He moaned and cried out suddenly in a startled voice: “Anne! Anne! You’re there, you witch. I see you.” He spoke